


(13. Ash) / if all your dreams were on fire, which one would you save

by Mothfluff



Series: GO-ctober Prompts 2019 [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley will forever dream and panic about the Armageddon't, Gen, M/M, Nightmares, October Prompt Challenge, One Word Prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 02:15:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21028607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mothfluff/pseuds/Mothfluff
Summary: My attempts at an October Challenge, basically using the original Inktober prompts for drabbles.(Each prompt will be posted as part of a series, not chapters, so I can add tags/characters/ratings/trigger warnings for each instead of the whole she-bang)Prompt 13 - AshHeat is circling him.An all-encasing, oppressive heat, scorching his skin, burning down into his soul.Flames licking across his hands, scorch marks along his jacket, pain in his soles returning from decades ago as the heat travels across the floor.Heat, everywhere.Aziraphale, nowhere.





	(13. Ash) / if all your dreams were on fire, which one would you save

Heat is circling him.

An all-encasing, oppressive heat, scorching his skin, burning down into his soul.

Flames licking across his hands, scorch marks along his jacket, pain in his soles returning from decades ago as the heat travels across the floor.

Heat, everywhere.

Aziraphale, nowhere.

Aziraphale isn't in the bookshop, he's nowhere Crowley can sense him. He's _gone_.

The heat gets closer. It sinks into his bones, it burns him from inside out.

He runs for the doors, but they're gone.

He runs for the windows, but they won't open, hot, untouchable.

In his head, a voice, so familiar.

_Aziraphale_.

“So you're really going to leave me?” it says.

“You're going to run off, far away, and leave me behind to burn.”

Crowley stops. Cries, yet the heat dries the tears from his face.

He falls.

He's in the Bentley, and the heat follows.

He can see the flames encircling him, he can feel them, all around, stretching for miles. Inescapable.

In his head, the voice, again.

_Please, Aziraphale_.

“This is your fault.” it says.

“You created this fire. You did this. _This is your fault_.”

He pushes down on the pedal, his soles burning yet again, another painful memory. He races, tries to outrun the flames.

He fails.

Crowley jerks awake in his bed – his cool bed, the room well-ventilated, the sheets cold an damp from his sweat. He's panting, his body burning hot, is heart racing, staring at the ceiling in darkness. He can taste ash on his tongue, can smell it in the air, can feel it covering his skin, the memory stuck in the back of his head for eternity to come.

He's up, dressed and out in seconds long before his mind follows.

The Bentley sits across the street, unharmed, unscorched. No flames to see anywhere. The night air is cool, and Crowley feels the sting of it against his still sweat-slicked skin. It helps to keep him focussed, if only for seconds.

Inside the Bentley is another situation.

He tries to concentrate on the streets, so empty he barely has to dodge anyone. There will be more life in Soho, more drunken pedestrians to push aside.  
Crowley notices none of them. The ash of a cigarette, thrown after the racing car in angers, flies past the window.

He notices the heat, rising back up from his memory, and from the air-vents that no other vintage Bentley has. Smells the stink of Hastur, freshly discorporated, and only the second thought tells him it's only the sewers outside. Sees the flashes of red and yellow, jerks the wheel, until his mind finally realises it's nothing but a neon sign glowing in the dark.

He parks in front of the bookshop, askew as always.  
The bookshop is fine. No flames. No heat. Drawn curtains, the Closed sign bleached from the daily sun. A little light shining in the far back.

_Aziraphale._

Crowley storms in. The door slams behind him, and he twitches and turns around, as if it had not been him who slammed it.

Behind his head, the voice, soft and familiar.  
“Crowley?”

Aziraphale is standing between two shelves, a light in his hand – not a candle, no flames, only a soft, golden light emitting from nowhere in particular. He looks puzzled, until Crowley catches him in a tight hug, buries his face against his shoulder, finally shivers from the cold.

He feels the cool of his skin, smells the sleep still on him, the weariness of his bones, and understands.  
“A nightmare again?”  
Crowley nods, and Aziraphale returns the hug, as calming as he can.  
“I'm here, dearest, and all is well.”

They stand for a while – minutes, hours, years, Crowley does not notice, does not care. His thoughts are not his own yet.  
“I'm sorry.” He mumbles into the angel's sweater.  
“You're always welcome here, any time.”  
“No.” He grips tighter around Aziraphale's back. “For what I did.”  
“What did you do, darling?”  
“Leaving you on the streets.” He swallows, his throat is dry, his voice hoarse. He doesn't remember screaming, neither in his dreams nor while waking. The ash is stuck all the way down to his lungs. “Bringing Hellfire on to the streets.”  
“Oh, my heart.” Aziraphale strokes across his hair, nudges his ear, silently asks him to look up – and Crowley obeys, and faces his soft eyes, his sad smile. “You were the one who stayed, for the world. You were the one who burned, for me.” He places a soft kiss against Crowley's cold lips, and he finally feels like he can stand the warmth again.

They stand for some more time – foreheads pressed together, Aziraphale's slow breath calming Crowley's racing heart, his body's warmth seeping into him, not burning, yet equally encompassing. His voice, so much softer and kinder than in Crowley's dreams.  
“Let's get upstairs. Maybe you can catch some more sleep here.”  
“No.” Crowley protests before he can think, again, the fear bubbling back up. Another soft kiss hushes him, grounds him.  
“Alright. Then let's sit. I'll read to you.”  
Crowley nods, and stands, until Aziraphale pulls him all the way to the back, settles him on the sofa, his head on his lap. His hand in his hair, a book in the other, and the soft voice echoing quietly through the bookshop.

Crowley falls asleep slowly, dreams of nothing but warmth and softness. When he wakes again, Aziraphale is there.

All is well.


End file.
